by Jerry Buck
The four men I had seen riding into town! Why hadn’t I acted on my suspicions?
My throat suddenly felt as dry as an alkali flat. I couldn’t swallow. My hands began to sweat.
Abby was down in the bank!
Chapter Nine
I wanted to run down the stairs and see if Abby was safe. But I was unarmed and knew I’d be looking down the barrels of four guns. I prayed she was unharmed.
I tore off my coat—my black lawyer’s coat, Abby called it—and let it fall to the floor as I raced to the front window. I climbed out onto the porch roof. I could see the rumps of their horses tied to the hitching rail in front of the bank.
I peered over the roof’s edge. One man stood nervously by the horses. He had a scattergun in his hands. He couldn’t see me because of the broad brim of his hat. I prayed that he didn’t look up.
I could see the fringes of a reddish beard under the hat. His ample stomach pressed against the duster. What I could see of his fancy clothes beneath the duster told me this dude was probably more comfortable in a saloon dealing aces from the bottom of a deck than robbing banks.
The heavy tread of boots on the wooden sidewalk below frustrated my decision to jump the man. Several shots exploded beneath me. A bullet splintered through the roof only inches from my right boot.
A woman screamed somewhere down the street. A dog barked. Doors slammed shut. Wild shouting came from all sides.
The horses whinnied nervously and stirrup straps and saddles creaked under the weight of mounting riders. I remained motionless, not wanting any sound to betray my presence until I was ready to make my move.
I knew all four men were in the saddle. I caught glimpses of them and could see the dust rising as the horses pranced about. I could hear the leather and the stamping hooves.
“What’d you have to go and shoot for, you dumb Arkie?” said a voice below me.
“How’n hell was I supposed to know it was a woman?” answered a high-pitched voice. “Suppose it had been the sheriff, tell me what then?”
“What’s done is done,” said another voice.
They shot a woman! The words left me utterly empty. For a moment I seemed almost oblivious to the action swirling on the street below me. Never before had I felt such cold hatred or been compelled to such recklessness.
The Arkie shot a woman in the bank! Abby was the only woman in the bank!
I stepped to the edge of the roof. I didn’t know which was the Arkie who had pulled the trigger. I did know it wasn’t the fat man. But it didn’t matter. I was going to kill them all. With my bare hands, if necessary!
The four horses circled aimlessly below me as the riders blasted away at any townsman foolish enough to show his head. They moved in a cloud of gun smoke. The acrid smell of black powder stung my nostrils.
The fat man who had held the horses came beneath me. I braced myself for the leap. But another horse, frightened by the noise and commotion, bolted suddenly to the right and butted the fat man’s horse out of the way.
I was in midair when the new horse and rider came under me. Before I hit I heard the big man with the black beard bellow: “Let’s ride, you sonsabitches!”
I reached down with both hands and grabbed the rider’s shoulders and drew myself toward him. My rump landed just behind the cantle of his saddle. The thick blanket roll tied behind the cantle cushioned my landing. Still, the force of the impact sent air rushing out of my lungs in a whoosh.
The horse kicked up its hind legs in protest. I held on tightly. I had no intention of being bucked off.
“Wha’ th’ hell!” the rider cursed in surprise. For an instant he wasn’t sure what had hit him.
I wrapped one arm tightly around his waist, and with the other reached for his pistol. I didn’t succeed, but I got an iron grip on his right wrist. It kept him from twisting the gun around to shoot me.
“Git this critter offen my back!’’ he screamed. He cocked his head around to see what had hold of him. His mouth was twisted in rage and his dark eyes were wild.
I knew that face! I knew that man! I struggled to put a name to that face.
I clung tightly to the rider to make them think twice before throwing lead at me. At the same time I dug my heels into his horse’s flanks. It caused his horse to jump and kick and prance around, forcing the others to keep their distance.
As we whirled around, the other three riders flashed by. I got my first good look at the big man with the black beard. He had a hawk nose a Comanche chief would envy. Suddenly I recognized him.
Bill Smoot! I’d had trouble with him in Kansas four years ago. He’d robbed the bank at Colchester.
Now I knew the man I was clinging to—Montana Smith! A backshooter and Smoot’s cohort in half a dozen escapades in Kansas. He’d killed a man from ambush in Dodge.
I nearly brought the two of them to tree on the banks of the Arkansas one wintry night a week after the bank robbery. A sudden blizzard swept down across the prairie, and this was the first time I’d seen them since.
The fat man flashed by. I couldn’t find a name, but I’d seen a hundred tinhorns like him working keno and dealing poker in cow town saloons.
The fourth man, then, was the Arkie!
The twisting horse quickly brought him into my line of sight. He was a baby-faced kid! My God, it could have been Dusty Morgan! Then I saw the eyes. They were like the icy blue pits of hell. The dead eyes of a killer. I had seen eyes like that before. Men with eyes like that killed for the sport of it.
The Arkie brought up his gun, and a tight little smile crossed his baby lips. “This is th’ day y’meet yore Maker!’’ he sneered.
I hugged Montana tighter than a Beau Brummell sparking in a buggy. Suddenly I realized: the kid didn’t care if he hit Montana or not. Maybe they had quarreled in camp. Maybe he figured it was just one less man to take a share of the loot. More likely, he just didn’t give a damn and was licking his chops over carving another notch on his long-barreled .45.
It was aimed straight at me. I looked right into the black hole of the bore. His thumb pulled back the hammer and his finger tightened on the trigger. His eyes told me he wanted to kill me.
“Damn you, Bayliss!” The booming shout came from behind me. It was Smoot.
“You hit Montana and I’ll make sure it yore las’ day on earth!”
I saw Bayliss ease off the trigger. His lips curled into another cruel smile, and he snarled, “Damned if this ain’t yore lucky day, Texican!”
He had hardly uttered the last word when the back of my head exploded. My eyes went out of focus. I loosened my grip on Montana, and he elbowed me off the back of his horse.
As I hit the ground, my head jerked sharply. Through bleary eyes I could see that Smoot had come up behind me and hit me with the butt end of his gun. My attention had been on the Arkie.
I rolled in the dusty street, trying to avoid the horses’ hooves digging holes in the dirt just inches from my face. I kept moving. I didn’t want to give the Arkie—or anyone else—a clear shot.
In front of the bank, Otis Rankin stood like an enraged guardian. He had a big Peacemaker in his hand, and he knew how to use it. It was a snub-nosed Shopkeeper’s Model. He fired twice, and the gun belched smoke and fire.
The men were dodging bullets, yet Bayliss reined his horse, twisted in the saddle, and took aim at me over his shoulder. The bullet kicked dust in my face. He didn’t have time for a second shot. Otis sent a round that tore a neat little hole in the brim of his sweat-streaked hat.
“Ride, dammit, ride!” Smoot shouted above the bedlam.
The four horsemen fought for control of their frightened animals. Several raced in circles before all of them beat a path for the town’s edge. Not more than two dozen buildings lined San Miguel’s main street. It wouldn’t take them long to be in the plains.
I was on my feet. Without a word I took Otis’ pistol. He released it willingly.
I stepped to the middle of the street and took caref
ul aim at the fleeing riders. I wanted the Arkie, but with their backs to me, and at that distance, I couldn’t be sure.
I picked a back at random and fired. The .45 kicked in my hand and a halo of flame and smoke flashed at the end of the barrel. Automatically my thumb cocked the weapon, and I pulled the trigger again. All I heard was a click.
Otis clapped me on the back. “You got one!” he said excitedly. “He nearly fell off his horse! You put a hole right between the shoulder blades.”
Suddenly, as though he remembered something, the excitement left him and his face paled. I didn’t want to ask him what he had remembered. Not yet.
The departure of the desperadoes brought the townspeople flooding into the street. They gathered in animated little groups and looked helplessly at the dust cloud left by the fleeing riders.
“Asa,” I called, and the sturdy storekeeper turned his attention to me. “We’ll need a posse. See what you can do about horses and men. ”
He set immediately to recruiting men, and I saw no lack of volunteers as I hailed Albert.
The stable boy ran eagerly to me. “Take a horse,” I instructed, “and ride as fast as you can to the Lazy A. Tell Angus we need as many men as he can spare. Tell him to meet us at Three Mile Junction.”
I could no longer postpone the painful question nagging at my mind. I looked at Otis. He avoided my pleading eyes.
All I could utter was a single word: “Abby?”
I could see that Otis, too, dreaded this moment. He started to speak. He swallowed hard. I knew the answer written on his sad face.
“Ben,” he said, then hesitated for an eternity. “I’m sorry.”
Otis quickly told me what had happened.
Three of the bandits had entered the bank. The fat, red-bearded man stayed outside with the horses. There were no customers in the bank at the time.
“Stand easy, gents, and no one’s gonna get hurt,” said the big man with the black beard, the man I recognized as Bill Smoot.
The men had their guns out, and after Smoot’s warning hardly another word was spoken.
The tall, clean-shaven man stood by the door. That was Montana. Smoot pushed past Otis, kicked open the gate, and unfolded a sack as he headed for the open vault.
Smoot pulled the heavy door open all the way, then squatted in front of the vault. He immediately began raking the packets of money into the sack. Normally Otis never kept more money in the bank than was needed for everyday business. On this day, however, he had extra cash to meet the big ranch payrolls. Slightly more than six thousand dollars was in the vault.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Otis spied Swensen edge his right hand toward the teller’s cage drawer. Otis kept a loaded .45 in that drawer. At that moment, however, he prayed the Swede would come up empty-handed.
The kid, the Arkie I heard called Bayliss, saw Swensen’s furtive movement.
The pistol he had aimed at Otis swung in a gunmetal blur and exploded like a thunderclap. Swensen’s hand never reached the drawer. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Smoot jumped like a jackrabbit, spilling dollar bills on the floor.
At that same instant the staircase door by the safe opened.
Abby stood in the doorway at the bottom of the steps. Her right hand started toward her mouth. A scream formed in her throat.
Before her hand reached her bosom, Bayliss’s gun exploded again. The impact threw Abby back into the stairwell. She was dead before she had fully grasped what was happening.
“Sweet Mother a God!’’ Smoot swore. “Now y’tore it!”
The fat man opened the door by Montana and looked in nervously. “That shootin’-—” He saw the two bodies, and the words froze in his mouth. The color drained from his ruddy face. “Jesus!” he finally sputtered, “I knew that Arkie was gonna be trouble! He kilt a woman!”
Bayliss didn’t even bother to look at the fat man. He hissed, “And I knowed you was too yeller to even watch th’ horses.”
“Things is gettin’ awful edgy out there,” the tinhorn croaked in a voice that cracked like an adolescent’s. “We better skedaddle!”
“Not till we git what we came fer,” said Bayliss.
Smoot, scooping up the last of the money from the safe, was getting very agitated. “Git back outside!” he ordered the tinhorn. “We can’t have nobody lay in’ an ambush for us!”
Bayliss holstered his pistol and cleaned out the teller cash drawer. He dumped the money into the sack. He picked up the big Colt in the drawer and shoved it under his gunbelt. Then he leveled his icy blue eyes on Otis. His gun was in his hand again. He said to Smoot, “What about him? We don’t want no witnesses.”
Smoot, tying a leather thong around the open end of the sack, said, “Boy, you ain’t got a lick a sense!”
I knew the rest of the story. That’s where I came in. I also knew that Otis kept another gun in his desk drawer.
Otis tried to persuade me not to go into the bank, but I wouldn’t be stopped. Several women were tending to Abby and had removed her to the old leather couch by Otis’s desk. They stepped aside silently as I approached.
A blanket had been stretched over her. I pulled it down to reveal her face. She appeared to be in tranquil sleep. A wisp of hair was on her forehead.
I knelt by the couch and looked at her face. How I wanted to wake her from that sleep! I kissed her forehead and her cool, still lips.
As I said a silent prayer for Abby and the child we would never have, a tear drop fell on the collar of her dress.
Chapter Ten
Night was falling fast, and the scant tracks were growing more difficult to read in the fading light. The trail led almost due east from San Miguel.
We had been following the signs since the four men had robbed the Stockman’s Bank at midmorning. Hours of scanning the dusty road before it disappeared into hardpan had trained my eyes to distinguish the shoes of each horse.
We rode slowly as I leaned from the saddle to peer carefully at the ground. Sometimes it was only a few pebbles pressed into the soil. Once or twice the ground softened enough so that I could see the clear bite of a shoe.
I nodded to Angus, who rode just behind me at the head of the hastily assembled posse of townspeople and cowhands. Pointing down, I said, “They were still riding at a good clip when these tracks were made. The front of the shoes dug in pretty deep.”
Angus shifted in the saddle and squinted his eyes for a clearer view. He removed his hat and wiped his sweaty brow with his bandanna. “Aye,” he said. “They can’t keep it up much longer. They’ve got to rest their horses soon.”
I looked back at the sun. It was a dull red ball plunging behind the low, eroded foothills behind us. Our shadows stretched out on the trail. After a few minutes they began to fade and disappear. The western sky turned orange, then purple, and dusk was upon us.
With sundown, a breeze freshened across the plain. It began to dry our sweat-soaked shirts. I turned my face this way and that until the fresh air felt the coolest. The wind was coming from the east, just a few points to the south. It smelled of bluebonnets and sun-cooked grass. I had hoped for the smell of horseflesh, or fresh-dropped manure, or even the pungent smell of smoke, but I was disappointed.
“Why don’t we rest for a spell,” Angus suggested.
With only a nod, I stepped down from my horse, a dappled gray I had borrowed from Nimrod Jones’s stable. Six men had ridden from town with me. They were hastily armed with whatever weapons they could collect.
I carried a Peacemaker and a belt and holster that Asa Stanley had snatched from a display counter in his store. It was a Colt Single Action Army Revolver, the Cavalry Model with a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. It was one of the new pistols that used a metal cartridge. A Winchester was in the saddle boot.
Otis had wanted to ride with us, but I had persuaded him that his place was at the bank.
Angus, with eight more men, had joined us east of Three Mile Junction. I was happy to see that he ha
d Chago with him. I’d feel safe charging a Cheyenne war party if I knew Chago was at my side. He was the kind of man I welcomed as a friend and would dread as an enemy. I was less happy to see Crayler, but I figured he was probably handy with a gun. If we met up with Smoot’s bunch, we’d need men with a keen eye and a steady hand.
The weary men squatted by their horses. There was no wood for a fire, so we drank warm water from our canteens and chewed on jerky and dry biscuits. Several men opened sacks of tobacco and rolled quirleys.
Angus sat on the ground beside me and pulled at his long sandy mustache. “I brought a lantern or two,” he said. “We could light up and follow the trail some more.”
I had an unlit cheroot in my mouth. Out of the side of my mouth I said, “They’d spot a light ten miles off. No sense tipping our hand sooner’n we have to.”
“Aye,” Angus agreed, taking another tug at his mustache. After a moment, he said, “We could ride blind and trust to luck they keep on going in the same direction.”
“That’s what I been thinking. They got to roost sometime.”
Chago sat beside us on the hard ground. He put his sombrero on one raised knee and sipped at his canteen. “Ees funny,” he said. “Thees taste just like agua. I thought I filled my botella with tequila. But ees okay. I forget the lime, too.”
He grinned broadly. “El jefe say we ride in the dark. The moon she be up in another two, three hours. She not a full moon, but if your gringo eyes fail you, Chago can see fine in the dark.”
Angus grunted. “The thing for you to do, my boy, is see that you don’t smile too much. Those pearly whites of yours shine like the lighthouse at Oban. They make a tempting target, moon or no moon.”
It was the first laugh we’d had on the long ride. My mind had been on one thing, and the tension had left me stiff-necked and headachy. It was good to relax.
We were all tense, and none of us wanted to speak of the morning’s tragedy. I sensed that it was a tacit agreement among them. Even Angus, who loved Abby like a daughter, had not mentioned it after a few choked words of condolence when he joined us.